A Grotesque Art
by Genevia
Summary: It is malevolent, dark and sinister, but it is an art and I am an artist.  Warning: Mentions of self-harm and really disturbing things. Might be triggering.


_d i s c l a i m e r : i d o n o t o w n g l e e ._

. . . . . .

The **canvas** is pale and unmarred. It is blank, devoid of all emotion manifested by streaks and marks. It is smooth and plain, dull and dreary.

The **paintbrush** gleams. It is unused, its surface stainless and reflecting flickering lights. It holds neither color nor beauty, neither power nor creativity.

The **artist** picks up the paintbrush gingerly, as if afraid and unsure. He raises and ever so slowly brings the tool closer to the canvas. His hand trembles. Uncertainty radiates throughout his whole being, stopping the artist in his tracks. It hinders him to make art but this _art_ beckons to him; he cannot refuse it for long.

Emotions swirl around him in invisible eddies, silently encouraging him to go on. Will he do it? _Can_ he do it?

Does he even have enough '_courage_' to do it?

One look in his jade-speckled, hazel eyes and the answer is as plain as light during the day.

He cannot. He does not.

But he must.

Necessity pushes him to continue his work. He sighs, a sign that he is giving in. His resolve and indecision, like a once strong brick wall, has crumbled into dust.

He submits to whate'er force compelling him to make his masterpiece.

A shaky breath is taken before the paintbrush meets the canvas.

Color blooms.

The paintbrush is moved in zigzagging patterns, as if following an unseen path. Thin lines intersect each other in an intricate dance. They stretch on and on, crossing one another and expressing a myriad of emotions like anger, disappointment and lachrymose. However, there is only one color amidst this madness.

Red.

It blooms in every streak, filling the canvas with its vibrancy and rawness. It seeps through the material and stains every inch with emotions of all kinds.

The artist's hand moves continuously. It handles the paintbrush effortlessly across the canvas, causing marks to appear and red to explode everywhere.

Unlike how it began, which was slow and seemingly undetermined, it ends suddenly and in a screeching halt. For a deafening moment, there is only silence. Absent are the sounds of paintbrush gliding on canvas. Absent is the harsh breathing of the artist.

Stillness reigns until it is broken by the clatter of the paintbrush dropping on the concrete floor and the heart wrenching sobs let out by the artist.

. . . . . .

The **canvas** is colored and marred, full of emotion manifested by streaks and marks. It is uneven and intricate, vibrant and teeming with meaning.

The **paintbrush** glimmers. It is used; its surface stained with red. It holds both color and beauty, both power and creativity.

The **artist** lies on the floor in a disheveled heap. He shakes in rhythmic tremors as sobs wrack his body. He has done it. He has created the _art_ that beckoned to him before. He is spent, emotions drained out of him by his work.

He can now rest. **Rest for eternity, perhaps?**

. . . . . .

Kurt Elizabeth Hummel walked through the hallway, stopping occasionally to say 'hi' to a fellow Warbler or a boy he had class with. It was Friday and class had just ended so he was now on his way to Blaine's room, probably to have a short make-out session...?

When the porcelain boy arrived at the door, he knocked timidly and called out. "Blaine? It's me."

Kurt knocked again and frowned when there was no answer for the second time. Finding this odd, he recalled his conversation with Blaine during lunch. He strictly remembered that the soloist asked him to stop by after class, since there was no Warblers' meeting for today.

The countertenor shrugged. Maybe Blaine was just napping while waiting for him. He pulled out a duplicate key to the older boy's room—Blaine had given in to him even before they became boyfriends. That was just how much they trusted each other.

After unlocking the door, he slowly crept inside. He squinted against the darkness. Why were the lights off?

He scanned the room for a sign of the soloist but found nothing—well, until he opened the lights. When he did, a gasp escaped his lips and color drained from his face.

Blaine—_Blaine_ was on the floor... _bleeding_.

The older boy's arms sported countless cuts; some long, some short, some shallow, some deep. He was sobbing on the floor, shaking in tremors. He was only wearing sweatpants, but even that piece of clothing was stained with... _blood_.

"B-Blaine?" Kurt whispered, slowly walking towards the fallen boy.

His call did nothing but make Blaine curl tighter into a ball.

"_I can't do it anymore. I'm not strong enough, never was. Should just give up. Parents don't even care." _The fallen boy's muffled words reach his boyfriend's ear. He holds himself more rigidly, as if afraid that if he loosened his grip, he would fall apart to pieces. "_Needed to cut. It's art, right?_"

Kurt held back a sob but ambled over to Blaine, kneeling beside the older boy and cradling him in his arms.

"No, Blaine. You're strong enough. Don't ever _ever_ give up. There are people who care about you, never forget that." he murmured, smoothing the other boy's tousled curls. "You don't need to cut. It's not art, Blaine. It never was."

He only received a cry as a response.

. . . . . .

**a / n**

So, yeah. I suck. I officially suck. I actually posted this on Tumblr a while back with a different ending, that was the original one. I edited it to make it Klaine.

I know it isn't really very good, or as good as my other stories are. XP

Review and tell me what you think?


End file.
